


Jalapeno

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21753796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Julian’s hot; Quark’s a genius.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 21
Kudos: 116





	Jalapeno

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

One of Quark’s (many) best features is his ability to read a crowd. No matter how the population of Deep Space Nine shifts, Quark can adapt to their wants and needs quicker than any other Ferengi could. It’s why his bar is perpetually the most successful business on the station. A bit of mingling here, a bit of overheard gossip there, and voila—Quark knows exactly what his customers crave. At the moment, his customers crave Julian Bashir.

It’s not all that surprising, really. All the best marketing comes down to fear or pleasure. Quark deals in weapons on the side and publicly employs the most attractive dabo girls available. He does consider hiring dabo men, since there seems to be some interest in that, but he knows that if he asks Bashir, not only will he likely get a resounding _no_ , but he’ll show his hand. Once someone’s made aware of what they have, they’re infinitely more difficult to exploit. It’s a pity Bashir’s Starfleet—one of the few professions not so easily outbid, as all its recruits seem too stupid to understand the true value of _money._

Fortunately, Quark doesn’t need to buy Bashir off. The good doctor wanders into the bar frequently enough on his own. He’s what the humans call ‘adventurous’ and is willing to try new things. He’s also up for anything Quark offers if it’s half the credits. Bashir should know that Quark _never_ gives discounts unless he has a damn good reason. But Bashir has tiny little lobes and remains blissfully ignorant, so Quark begins bringing him the hottest concoctions imaginable. Literally hot. Spicy. He even offers Bashir a free bowl of the little pretzels he seems to like so much, but dusted with ground up Rigelian chili peppers.

Then Quark gets to sit back, man the bar, and watch his latest attraction flush and start to bead with sweat. It doesn’t take long until he’s unzipping the top of his stuffy uniform. Several patrons notice, their eyes lingering, and Quark counts a grand total of four Starfleet officers come in that almost never do. He’s able to sell them the most expensive drinks he has at particularly exorbitant prices, because they’re too busy ogling and watching Bashir pant and fan himself to realize they’re being swindled. Even O’Brien starts looking uncomfortable across the little table they’re sharing. But Bashir waves off his friend’s evident concern and just strips out of his jacket, tossing it over the back of his chair and leaning forward in just his purple undershirt. Personally, Quark doesn’t at all see the appeal in Bashir’s lanky bronzed arms. He could maybe get behind the doctor’s somewhat delicate hands, which must be quite skilled to perform such a hands-on job, but Quark would have to close his eyes during the oo-mox and picture someone better. 

Somehow still unaware, Bashir pops another pretzel into his mouth. He even licks the red powder off his lips. There are two women in the door of Quark’s establishment just peering in, mesmerized by the surprise view, and Quark’s sure he can turn them into paying customers if he just offers a _little_ more. Most civilized races appreciate nudity. If he can just get the rest of the uniform off, he’s sure to clean up.

He mixes up another Mrennenimian Spice Sunset and slips out from behind the bar, ready to seal the deal. He’s almost reached Bashir and O’Brien’s table when a hand clamps around his wrist so hard that Quark squawks and nearly drops the glass. 

Garak smiles down at him with the usual vapid grin that Quark knows masks absolutely murderous intent. Garak kindly tells him, “I highly suggest you _not_ bring that drink to _my_ dear doctor.” There’s just enough emphasis in the right places to make the threat crystal clear. Obviously, Garak has seen right through him. And Garak’s too possessive to put up with it. 

Quark scowls. Somehow, he’d failed to see that roadblock. He hisses, too low to carry to the nearby table of scintillating patrons, “This could benefit you too! Just a little more and—” He cuts off as the grip around his wrist tightens so painfully that Quark actually sees stars. He gasps, “On the other hand, maybe a nice glass of water...”

“He’ll have kanar,” Garak corrects. “On my tab. And we’ll take it in the bottle, so we can enjoy it elsewhere.”

Quark glares hard enough that if Rom saw it, he’d run away in tears. Garak’s smile doesn’t falter. 

Quark grumbles, “Kanar, coming right up.” And he can feel Garak’s eyes trailing him all the way back to the bar, shattering one of the best schemes he’s ever had.


End file.
